


the place that i've been dreaming of

by lacecat



Series: post-finale collection [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: But mostly fluff, Fluff and Angst, I AM ALIVE AFTER THAT EPISODE, Implied Relationships, M/M, Post-Finale, Reunions, THIS IS JUST ME TRYING TO DEAL WITH ALL MY EMOTIONS AFTER THAT SCENE, because they are happy and i want only happiness for them, really mostly james/thomas but the ot4 is real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 03:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10528341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: “I thought I would never see you again in this life,” James tells him, and the bright look in Thomas’s eyes floors him once more, rendering him speechless.“It seems as though this life has more in store for us, after all,” Thomas says, and his voice reflects that wonder that James feels filling his heart, the feeling overfilling and oozing out between his ribs, slow and sweet like dripping honey.





	

**Author's Note:**

> listen this is just me having to write something after that episode. oh my god. this show has been a wild ride and I'm so glad to be involved in this fandom and all you lovely people ❤︎
> 
> title from 'somewhere only we know', which is such a relevant song for after that episode
> 
> (I'm @jamesbarlow on tumblr)

•••

The wind rushes around him, rustling the grass and making the long stalks of the field sway. It provides the barest moment of relief from the overwhelming heat, the thick air, but he pays it no mind, like he has barely noticed the biting metal of the shackles being removed from his wrists. 

 

He thinks that if he holds his breath, perhaps he will not wake from this dream. He fights the urge to exhale, refusing to let free the trapped air in his lungs, lest he gives up whatever he has managed to clasp to him in this moment. He doesn’t want to risk letting a single breath go, if it means waking from this dream, if it means giving up who is standing in front of him, in exchange for something as inconsequential as the life in his body. 

 

But then his feet are moving, and the mud is soft and yielding under his boots. He stops a few arms lengths- impossibly close, and yet, he’s afraid to come any closer and have it all be torn away form him- and blinks hard as another gust of wind buffers around him.

 

Thomas’s mouth parts, and stunned does not even begin to describe the look on his face. Then the corners of his eyes crinkle, a true smile coming to his face, and James is blinded by the rush of warmth and pain and _love_. 

 

The breath leaves his lungs anyways, another thing beyond his control, as he feels a dull blow to his gut. Because he can’t be imagining this, not with how Thomas’s jaw is covered in a thick layer of stubble, nearly a full beard, how his eyes are bluer than he remembered, but he still doesn’t dare to hope.

 

Then he’s inhaling once more, only it’s into Thomas’s neck, and he can feel the breath flood in and out of his lungs as he breathes him in. Thomas is there, he’s alive, and James has to clench his eyes shut, willing himself to keep this moment in his hands. He would kill anyone who would attempt to drag him from this moment, he knows with absolute certainty, anything to keep the feeling of Thomas pressed up against him, his hand large and soft on the back of James’s head. 

 

As their mouths slot together, both too overcome to do more than shudder against each other, the wind dies down for a moment, like the universe is giving them a quiet moment, one they have deserved for a long time. 

 

Even when they eventually separate, he find he can’t will his hands to let go of the back of Thomas’s neck, the short hairs prickling his fingers. It seems that Thomas too is similarly stuck, as he presses his thumb against James’s bottom lip, dragging it slowly across and down, feeling his face as though he is a blind man determined to map out every scar, every freckle, every living breathing inch of him. James would let him too, not caring one bit of the people around him. He would let Thomas map out his entire body right there, like he could discover something precious between the thudding of his heart and tight clench of his hands, begin to understand just what the world has handed to them in this moment.

 

“I thought I would never see you again in this life,” James tells him, and the bright look in Thomas’s eyes floors him once more, rendering him speechless. 

 

“It seems as though this life has more in store for us, after all,” Thomas says, and his voice reflects that wonder that James feels filling his heart, the feeling overfilling and oozing out between his ribs, slow and sweet like dripping honey.

 

He can’t stand to say anything, as Thomas wipes the tears that he can only feel running down his cheeks now, the salty taste making its way to the corner of his mouth like the brine of the sea coming inland to rest. The warm press of this thumb solidifies him, reassuring in a way that even surpasses the other man’s words, and he breathes in deeply.

 

•••

 

There are no words that either of them can express to even begin to understand this second chance, not here, so they are mostly silent as they walk back from the field, escorted by the plantation owner’s men so that Thomas can gather his belongings. As they walk side by side, Thomas’s hand brushes his every few steps. 

 

After a tiny fraction of the cache had been put in the plantation owner’s pocket, he had readily agreed to let them take Thomas with them. Beside the money, they all knew that anyone who would understand any great meaning behind the name Thomas Hamilton is long dead by now. The money was an assurance to keep the entire meeting quiet, any mention of Captain Flint or Long John Silver far away from this place. 

 

James glances around while they walk; while there are a few guards who might be hard to take down without even a knife to guide him, it wouldn’t be impossible, even if he couldn’t convince Hands or Gunn to assist him.

 

“The conditions here,” James says, keeping his voice pitched low as not to be overheard by anyone other than Thomas, “Are they suitable?”

 

Thomas glances over to him, his face betraying no sign of surprise. “The owner is a decent man, who believes in caring for those whom England has cast aside. It is only a plantation in name. He does not pay much, but it is a wage, and the conditions are far from the kind of harshness that many of these men have experienced.”

 

James forces his face to stay blank. “The men are from- there?”

 

“Some are also from Bedlam, yes,” Thomas says, and his voice only wavers the slightest, barely noticeable if James hadn’t been looking at him. “We are free to leave if we choose, but I doubt there is a place in this land that would take strange men, let alone those whose idea of happiness conflicts with what society deems acceptable.”

 

“And you,” James forces out, because he has to know, has to give him the option, no matter how it feels like his heart about to shatter, “Do you wish to leave this place with me?” 

 

Thomas stops, and something in James’s stomach drops, only then he sees Thomas’s face, insistent and searching on his. “I would follow you to the ends of the earth now that I have you back at my side,” Thomas tells him. “You must know that.”

 

James nods, swallowing, and Thomas presses his hand to the side of his neck once more before they enter the living quarters. 

 

James tamps down the familiar rush of anger when he sees the dim quarters that Thomas had been sharing with the other men for years, just another reminder that he has been _so close_ all this time, hidden from the world and unknown to each other, despite them being on the same side of the ocean. But while a mere week ago, he might have wanted to carve vengeance into any body between him and the gate to this place, now he finds he has no such darkness in him.

 

Once the plantation owner seems satisfied that James is not intent on setting the place on fire as they leave, he departs with the other men. There’s a moment when Hands looks at them, pausing in the doorway, before giving him a sharp nod, and they all leave. 

 

“At least there’s not much to gather,” Thomas says absent-mindedly, putting a pale cotton shirt into the bag that James provides him with. “I’ll leave the books for the men.”

 

“You can take them with us, I can help you carry them,” James says, their fingers brushing as he pushes down the few articles of clothing, Thomas closing the bag. 

 

“I think it’s time to be make our own story,” Thomas says, and just like that, James has to close the space between them, pulling him in for a kiss that’s warm and dry, feeling like shelter from a storm. 

 

As the sun sets outside, James picks up the bag, Thomas at his side, and they leave. The clang of the gate behind them feels like a resolution, only it’s the beginning for them, and as night falls, the air of freedom has never tasted so sweet. 

 

•••

 

He brought up Miranda on the first night after they reunited, telling Thomas what had happened to her over a low fire set in the middle of an empty field, the only two around for miles. 

 

Thomas is silent at first, the flickering light only showing the pain on his face in small sections. James doesn’t dare touch him, not wanting to intrude in this moment of fresh mourning, before Thomas takes his hand in his, pulling him until they’re lying side by side next to the flames. 

 

“Peter had told me that the two of you had died long ago,” he says quietly, and James squeezes his hand where it’s folded in his. “I suspected as soon as I saw you- but I’m glad she had those few more years with you at least.”

 

“Thomas,” James croaks, “I left her alone. God, I was so consumed in this war, I left her alone, I hurt her, I let her be shot in front of me-”

 

“Did you stop loving her?” Thomas asks, and James shakes his head violently. 

 

“I’ll never stop loving her, I think about her every goddamn day,” he says, the bitter taste of grief horribly familiar in his mouth. “She should be here, with us.” 

 

“It’s not your fault,” Thomas murmurs, and James feels every brittle layer that he’s built up over himself, the last remnants of Captain Flint solidified over his bones, chip away as Thomas repeats himself, “It’s not your fault,” over and over until he’s laid bare in front of him. 

 

•••

 

They settle outside of Savannah, far away from the city in an abandoned house that overlooks the coast. They support themselves with crops from their small field, though the treasure that James had found in a hidden compartment in his bag was enough to keep them comfortable if it were to come to that.

 

The house is small, but cozy, and together they build their life there. At first, whenever James caught sight of the white walls, the sunlight painting bright streaks across the surfaces, he’s reminded of Miranda’s home back in Nassau, and for those first few months, the grief that swept over him was nearly too much to handle. 

 

But he had Thomas at his back, who would hold him, burying his face in James’s growing hair, helping him breathe through the loss until he could stand upright, safe in the circle of his arms. 

 

At night, they lose and find each other all over again, their bodies warm and pressed against each other. As Thomas trails kisses down his back, from the tips of his fingers to his thighs, he thinks of the stars in the sky being strung together as constellations, every touch of Thomas’s mouth against his body taking him apart and then bringing him together until he is whole once more. 

 

Thomas’s body is both familiar and strange underneath his own hands, years of hard muscle now new areas to explore, new scars and marks that he commits to memory. The new drag of his beard is as thrilling as the comfort of those familiar hands that are still able to know how to make his body sing after all these years, where to touch until he is sobbing with want, desperate and full of love. 

 

•••

 

The sight of the ocean every morning brings with it another kind of grief that doesn’t paralyze him in the way that Miranda’s memory does. He thinks about John Silver, about Madi, about the words that he never got to fully express to either of them. He stares across the water, and wonders if somewhere, they are looking across the water right back at him. 

 

It’s another kind of difficulty to tell Thomas about them, similar to how anything about the past ten years is hard to talk about for either of them. Thomas asks about them, though, gently prying stories of the mere year- and God, it had only been about a year that he had known Silver, but the depth of their relationship was hardly confined by that time- that they had known and grown beside each other. 

 

He tells Thomas about the time that they hunted a shark in a tiny rowboat, half-starved under the bright sun. He tells him about Silver’s uncanny ability to see right through him, and the way he would comb out his long, curling hair in James’s cabin at night, about the small smirk he reserved for James when they spoke with one voice. James tells him stories of the woman who had met his determination with her own, even surpassing him with how deeply she cared about the cause. He tells him how Madi’s dark eyes shone with a quiet kind of courage that was unlike anything he had ever seen, how her hands spread reverently over the pages of a book as she committed its words to memory. 

 

In return, Thomas gives him stories about Bedlam, about the plantation, no matter how painful such memories are. James slowly traces the marks on his wrists as Thomas recounts long, cold nights in England, the uncertainty of the future ahead of him. He shares with James about the group of men he had grown to call unlikely friends in the plantation, how they would trade books and stories around a single candle at night, their muscles aching from a long day at work. 

 

Reconciling their futures with the past is a slow process, as they both heal. But with every day that James wakes up with Thomas curled around him, his deep breathing as comforting as the waves that lap the hull of a ship, another piece of their life is built. He watches Thomas sleep, eyelids fluttering, his light hair now growing long and spread over the pillow and curling over the edge. 

 

Their life. Such words are foreign on his tongue for the longest time, as he is ready for the world to wrest their small corner of happiness away from them once again. But weeks turn into months turn into years. They both grow softer, the unforgiving cut of muscle on both of their bodies mellowing, the tough lines on their faces morphing into something more relaxed.

 

The first time James runs a hand through his hair in the mirror (now long, a darker color than he remembered), and he finds a few strands of white hair, he stares at his own reflection until Thomas comes back inside, hooking his chin around the curve of his shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror. The sun is setting outside, the lamp in the room giving the space a hazy glow. 

  
“I didn’t think I would live so long as to see this age,” James reveals, letting the strands of hair fall from his fingertips when Thomas gives him an inquiring gaze, smelling of sweat and fresh grass. “Is it strange that we have defied civilization, cast aside convention, and it is a few pieces of hair that I am fixated on?”  


“I think,” Thomas says, his hands coming around James’s waist, “That with every line I find on my face, I’m reminded of every year that I am blessed to spend with you until the day I die.” 

 

“You say that like death would separate us, that I would let us be parted once more,” James tells him, and Thomas lightly bites the place where his neck meets his shoulder, causing him to shiver as he laughs. He turns, then, pushing Thomas until they’re both falling onto the bed, content with each other as night falls. 

 

In the morning, Thomas heats them remnants of a soup that they had made yesterday, as James laves kisses up and down his neck, hands slipping under his shirt to rub small circles upon the soft flesh there. 

 

They eat outside, knees pressed together in the grass, as they watch the faraway dots of ship blink in and out of existence on the horizon, the morning sun hidden by the clouds over the horizon. 

 

Later, as they’re planting seeds for next year’s crops, Thomas hears the sounds first. He turns around, searching for the source of the creaking wheels. James looks up at him just as the two figures appear around the last bend in the path that leads to the house. His heart stutters as he recognizes the gait even from the distance, the sliding step of a crutch in the ground, as the figure sitting on the cart visibly straightens. 

 

They stand side by side as Silver and Madi approach, as Silver helps Madi down from the front seat. They approach the other two, and without looking, James’s hand finds its way into Thomas’s, grateful for his presence so that he knows it cannot be a mirage he is looking at. 

 

Silver’s beard is shorter, as his his hair, but it’s still spilling over his shoulders in a dark wave that makes James feel his fingers clench like he’s about to reach out for him. “We were wondering if there might be a space for us here,” Silver says, and his voice is low and rough and exactly as James remembered it, even after all this time. 

 

Madi puts her hand on the rounded curve of her stomach, the bump prominent even through the loose shirt she’s wearing tucked into her skirt. “We have been looking for you two,” she says, and her soft voice is also so familiar, enough so that James can feel the tears start to form in her eyes. “It has been far too long.” 

 

Thomas squeezes his hand. James looks at him, then, sees the happiness reflected in his face, and then he looks backs at the two in front of him. The wind is gentle, pushing his hair back as he looks at the people he loves, and he says, “Come inside.”

 


End file.
